


The Real Doctor Sexy

by WinchesterPooja (chronic_potterphile)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Blood, Brotherly Angst, Bunker, Don't Try This At Home, Field Surgery, Gen, Gore, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Medical Procedures, Season 9, Sick Sam Winchester, Splenectomy, Surgery, The Purge, This is what happens when the author is a doctor, Winchester Homemade Surgery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-23
Updated: 2015-06-23
Packaged: 2018-04-05 20:22:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4193604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chronic_potterphile/pseuds/WinchesterPooja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is nothing that Dean won't do for Sam. [Takes place directly after episode 9.13, 'The Purge'].</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my amazing beta, amberdreams, for her quick and wonderful help with the fic! This was written for last year's Supernatural Summer Gen Fic Exchange over at LJ, and the recipient is evelyncarver. I just forgot to cross-post. Sorry!
> 
> Thank you to my eternal cheerleader, SPNxBookworm for all the support. :*

**_Now_ **

Dean feels the wet grass dampen his jeans as he sits against the huge tree trunk, his cell phone pressed against his mouth and his eyes shut. He takes deep breaths and rests his head against the rough bark, reminding himself that he can relax now — that it's all right. But his mind won't let him do that. He can see it all; clear as crystal, although it's been over a week, and his heart flutters, beating madly when he thinks of how close he had come to losing Sam. Again.

After Gadreel, after everything, even after what Sam said to him, about being okay with Dean dying, Dean still can't give in to the thought, or be prepared for Sam to die. He wonders what Sam's thinking right now; if he's thankful at all for Dean's new attempt to bring him back from death's jaws, or if he's just silently cursing Dean. Dean wouldn't know. Sam hasn't spoken to him too much. He's still pissed. Or maybe the pain is just too much.

And Dean probably deserves it too. He didn't notice Sam's distress in time and knowing how well Sam can hide his injuries, Dean blames himself this time. He always keeps an eye on Sam, knowing that the kid can get into very tough spots very rapidly and he's the first to notice any problems going on with Sam. This time, he didn't. And Sam almost died.

_Again._

**~o~**

**_Then_ **

It was still early in the evening when Sam retired to bed after the Pishtaco hunt and after dropping his newest bombshell; that he didn't really care if Dean died. Dean found it odd that Sam was taking a siesta, but he did look pretty tired. He had been knocked about good by the Pishtaco and somewhere, a hurt, angry part of Dean stormed inside him, saying Sam deserved the temporary pain.

Dean made his way to his own room a while later and switched off the lights, but he didn't sleep. His arm hurt, Cain's Mark twinging at every burst of anger he felt between the curtains of disappointment and heartbreak, and his throat felt suspiciously painful and heavy. He tried to ignore it, tried to forget, but he couldn't.

Finally, he found himself reaching for his bottle of Jack and swigging down large mouthfuls of whiskey in the darkness. He vaguely remembered that he was probably screwing his liver irreversibly, but he didn't care. Maybe, if he died, Sam could be happy again and free from all sorts of burdens. It wasn't as if Dean's life meant anything to Sam. Dean had dragged himself on, stayed alive this long, always and only for his brother, because who'd look out for Sammy if Dean died? Turned out, the kid didn't care anyway.

He watched a few videos on the laptop for a while, not really caring what he was seeing. Time seemed to pass slowly, an hour seeming like an eternity. Dean got off the bed and stretched, preparing himself to get to the kitchen to make dinner. Sam would be awake soon and Dean was getting hungry. He was just about to leave the room, scratching at the back of his neck, when his phone rang. Frowning, Dean advanced to the bedside table and picked it up, only to see Jody Mills's name flashing on the screen. He took the call.

"Hey, Sheriff!"

_"_ _Hey, Dean! How you doin'?"_

Dean smiled. "I'm — I'm good. You?"

 _"_ _I'm good too,"_  she said.  _"_ _Listen,"_  she continued,  _"_ _I uh… I'm kinda in your neighbourhood and I was wondering if we could catch up."_

Dean had given Jody the bunker's address the last time they'd met, and asked her to visit anytime. Even under the circumstances, he found himself smiling. "Sure!" he said to the sheriff.

She chuckled from the other side.  _"_ _I'll be there in an hour — I just need to finish up something right now. Why don't I bring dinner and beer?"_

"You don't have to, Jody."

_"_ _Oh, come on. Don't be a killjoy! Besides, the radio station says there's a snowstorm forecast for tonight. That's depressing enough since I can't get out of here."_

"Does it?" Dean asked her. He hadn't exactly caught on to weather forecasts lately. It didn't make much of a difference inside the bunker anyway.

_"_ _Yeah, it does. You boys aren't going anywhere tonight, are you?"_

"No. Where are you staying?"

 _"_ _At a motel,"_  replied Jody.

"Stay over with us, then," Dean told her. "This place is good that way. It's not like you can go anywhere during the snowstorm."

 _"_ _That sounds great, but… "_  Jody trailed off, seemingly to contemplating something, but Dean pushed her.

"Hey, look who's trying to be a buzzkill now!"

She laughed.  _"_ _Okay, okay, I'll stay over."_

"Great," said Dean, grinning. "We'll see you in a bit."

_"_ _Sure!"_

They spoke for a while more and after he'd cut the call, Dean made his way to Sam's room. He was slightly surprised to find the door open and Sam sprawled spread-eagled on the bed, but Dean placed his palm against the wood of the door and knocked thrice.

Sam woke up with a start. "Whaaa?"

"Jody is coming to visit," Dean told him. "She's bringing dinner. Thought you'd like to know."

Sam rubbed at his eyes and pushed his hair back, grimacing slightly as he sat up. "Okay, sure."

Dean turned to walk away, not giving Sam a second glance before returning to his room and his bottle. He wondered if Sam would at least stop being a bitch in front of Jody, because he honestly didn't want a lecture from her, or for her to notice anything, but apparently, there was no way of figuring out what Sam was capable of saying these days.

**~o~**

Sam felt kinda bad about what he'd said to Dean, but he knew he wasn't about to apologise. If Dean wanted to be childish about this, he could go ahead and behave a little girl. Or he could be mature about it and try to understand what Sam meant. Dean, in all probability, had misinterpreted what Sam had meant to say and Sam knew he should, perhaps, clear it up, but right now, but he wanted Dean to be hurt. Sam was in pain and he was pissed and guilty and fucking  _miserable_ ; and Dean deserved to feel at least a part of the betrayal that Sam felt. It was only fair.

If Dean wanted to wallow in self-pity for the next few days, he could. Sam wasn't going to go around explaining anything. Dean was an intelligent person, completely capable of basic understanding and Sam was just fucking  _tired_  right now, of the mess that his life was. So yeah, Dean could go and cry someone else a river. Sam had had enough.

When Dean left after waking him up, Sam could see the hurt written on his brother's face and he felt sick satisfaction take over. However, Jody coming over would hopefully take his mind off this whole mess, and Sam found himself starting to anticipate her visit. He would be happier, though, if his shoulder weren't killing him.

It was funny, because he couldn't exactly remember getting hit there, but he reckoned he might have knocked it somewhere. There was no other explanation for it. His belly was tender too, near the spot that the cabinet had fallen on him and the Pishtaco had aimed his kick. It had been tender through the whole ride from Minnesota and he could feel dull, throbbing pain near his left. It seemed to be increasing slowly, but steadily. Right now, Sam was stiff and tired even after napping for an hour. His heart was also beating faster than normal — palpitations fluttering against his chest, making him feel anxious.

He winced as he got out of bed, swayed a little, trying to clear the black spots from his vision, indicating just how tired he was. Then he collected a fresh pair of clothes to change into, so he could shower, and wouldn't look as wretched as he felt when Jody arrived. He bumped up the thermostat on the way because it was getting slightly cold, and once in the bathroom, he let the shower run warm against his bare skin, steam rising in white plumes and filling the stall. There was a large bruise on his left side, no doubt from that beating he had suffered, , and Sam knew he was bound to have trouble with it over the next few days.

He felt a little better once he was done showering and he towelled himself dry before putting on his clothes and going to the library. Dean was already sitting there with the laptop, researching something.

"Hey," Sam said.

Dean looked up, raised his glass of whiskey to acknowledge Sam, but didn't reply. Sam didn't push him to talk.  _Well, fuck you very much, Dean, because you're not allowed to have a bitch-fit about this._

"So are we picking her up from somewhere?" asked Sam.

"Just from the usual place where we meet Charlie," Dean muttered. "She said she'd call when she got there."

"Okay." Sam dragged out a chair and joined Dean at the table. He raised the back of his palm to his mouth as he felt a yawn coming on, and grunted a little at the pain in his shoulder. He wished he could divert his mind from it so it would hurt less. Dean, however, seemed unperturbed by Sam's restlessness and Sam sat there, staring at his brother for what felt like an eternity, until mercifully, Dean's phone rang.

And when Dean left the bunker with his jacket draped around him so he could go get Jody, Sam was thankful for all the dissipating tension. But he knew that no matter how much Dean sulked or pouted, he wouldn't be taking back his words. It was time Dean accepted certain facts for a change.

**~o~**

Dean knew from Jody's sceptical gazes at dinner that she'd smelled a rat. He tried to keep cordial conversation with Sam, he really did; but it was hard to do that when looking at Sam just reminded him of what Sam had said to him a few hours ago. But he stayed civil, unlike Sam, who wasn't even talking much.

They settled in front of the TV with their beers, which Sam swapped, surprisingly, for water. It turned out that Jody loved Game of Thrones as much as Sam and Dean did, and they'd not had much time to finish the first season yet, since their lives had pretty much been a non-stop fiasco for the last few months. Dean and Jody expressed their sympathies out loud for the Stark family, wondered about Cersei and Jaime while agreeing that Tyrion was their favourite Lannister. Sam was still relatively silent, only giving forced smiles and nodding occasionally, and when they'd finished the episode and their beers, Sam excused himself to go to bed.

Jody looked shocked as she watched Sam stumble to his feet and walk away. She turned to Dean. "Is he okay?"

"Peachy," Dean scoffed. "He's better than just 'okay', Jody."

"No, you know, he didn't seem well, Dean. He was swaying when he walked."

"Was he, now?" Dean asked her. He shook his head. "It's been a long day. He's probably just tired. He'll be fine."

She frowned. "What's going on between you two?"

"It's nothing," Dean replied, waving his hand. He reached for the remote. "Wanna watch some more?"

"You should check on him, Dean," said Jody, not really replying to Dean's question.

He sighed. "Trust me. I'd know if he was hurt. He's just in one of his moods. Let him be."

Jody rested back against the couch they were sitting on and pursed her lips. "You two seemed okay the last time I saw you."

Dean found himself shrugging. "Shit happens, Sheriff. But right now he's just being a bitch. He's fit as a fiddle because Cas fixed him up good before he left, so don't worry."

"Where did he cut his lip?"

"We finished up a case earlier today," said Dean.

"I still think you should check on him. He didn't even eat much."

Yes, Dean had asked Sam about that, but Sam had just pushed away his half-eaten plate and said that he wasn't hungry, and then proceeded to drink water as though he were living in a desert. Dean hadn't really questioned him about it. And now that he thought of it… had Sam seemed a little pale?

"He… he looked okay," said Dean, not very sure of himself now.

Jody nodded. "Even so, nothing wrong in checking on him, right?" she encouraged.

Dean bit his lip. "I guess not. But he's – he's kinda  _really_  pissed."

"He isn't going to be angry at you for trying to help him, Dean."

Dean didn't know whether to laugh or cry at that.

**~o~**

Sam was sleeping soundly when Dean entered his room. Once again, he was spread-eagled on his back and in the darkness, Dean couldn't make out his brother's face much. Sam's breathing, however, seemed weird… different.

_Too fast._

Dean frowned. "Sammy?" he murmured, switching on the light, only to be greeted by his brother's pale face with his eyes pinched shut, his mouth open, drawing in rapid, shallow breaths. A fine film of sweat coated Sam's white face.

"What the fuck?" Dean whispered, stepping ahead and reluctantly placing a hand on Sam's forehead. He hissed at Sam's cool skin. He had expected quite the opposite — a fever or a building cold. Not this. Immediately, Dean's mind calculated all of Sam's visible symptoms and settled on the most obvious answer.

Sam was in shock.

Dean grabbed Sam's wrist with one hand and shook him awake with the other. "Hey," he said, pushing at Sam's shoulder. "Hey, wake up."

"Mmmm," Sam mumbled, hissing and flinching at Dean's touch. Dean let go of his wrist and stepped back.

"Okay, bitch, I won't touch you."

"Nhhh," Sam said, eyes opening slightly and swivelling over to Dean. "Sh-should'r…"

"Shoulder?" Dean asked him. "You hurt your shoulder?" Dean began to pull out his phone. They needed an ambulance. Sam was bleeding somewhere on the inside, although, Dean wasn't sure if someone could bleed like that from a shoulder injury.

Sam nodded. "Should'r… sss'mach…"

"Shit," Dean swore, things coming into perspective. If Sam was hurting on his belly and was going into shock, it definitely meant organ injury. They needed the hospital, but first, Dean needed to have a look for himself.

"Okay," he told Sam. "I'm gonna try and see where you're hurt on your stomach, all right?"

Sam didn't reply, but Dean was already pulling up his t-shirt. What he saw, though, just sent his heart hammering. A large, dark bruise decorated the left side of Sam's belly, indicating spilled blood on the inside, which confirmed Dean's suspicions. Tentatively, he put a hand on the bruise and Sam yelled out, his body arching against the bed.

Dean immediately recoiled, swearing again. There were two organs on that side: the stomach and the spleen. And if Sam's stomach had been bleeding, Dean knew that he'd be puking up blood like nobody's business. Which meant…

"Sam, we're getting you to the hospital," said Dean, dialling 911 on his phone. "I think your spleen has ruptured."

**~o~**

"No ambulance.  _No ambulance_. What the fuck do they mean by no ambulance for the next few hours?" Dean vented, pacing about the infirmary as Jody sat on a chair next to Sam's bed, her eyes on him.

"What are we supposed to do?" he asked her. He'd gone out to see if he could take out the Impala to take Sam to the hospital but there was a full-blown blizzard and the road outside the bunker itself was blocked with snow.

"You heard Dr Sheikh," replied Jody. "For the time being, we can just keep an eye on Sam and keep his fluids up. That's what they do in hospitals for ruptured spleens these days anyway. And the fact that it took him over twelve hours to actually get to this stage—"

"I  _know_  he said that, Jody," Dean replied, eyeing Sam, who lay with IVs up both hands, leaking saline into his body. Jody's doctor had confirmed Dean's suspicion of splenic rupture. Apparently, the shoulder pain, coupled with left abdominal pain was a dead giveaway. The doc had suggested some management for the shock and had told them to just keep Sam stable until help arrived.

"He's a good doctor," Jody told Dean.

"He hasn't even seen Sam."

"Yeah, but based on the information you gave him, he reckons Sam is pretty stable."

Dean sighed, wondering how Jody was so calm. He took the chair next to her. "I should have noticed…"

"You couldn't have," she said. "I don't even think  _Sam_ knew that there was something really wrong."

"Or he didn't want to tell me," Dean scoffed. "Don't blame him."

Jody remained silent. They could still hear Sam breathing shallowly and when Dean put a palm to Sam's forehead again, it was still clammy. He frowned. "How long ago did you call the doc?"

"About an hour ago."

"Isn't Sam supposed to be at least a little better?" Dean asked her. "Shock-wise?"

"He said we should wait two hours," Jody replied. "Maybe we should just give Sam some time."

"Yeah, we probably should." Dean had a bad feeling about this, and hoped he was wrong. He reached for the blood pressure apparatus and inflated the cuff, listening on the stethoscope during deflation.

Sam's blood pressure was low. It was standing at ninety over sixty, his systolic pressure at least ten lower than what it had been an hour ago. Dean drew out a breath. "His systolic is lesser than a hundred," he said, his heart beating restlessly.

Jody pulled out her phone just as Sam let out a moan. Dr Sheikh had asked to call if Sam's systolic BP went lower than a hundred. In the meantime Dean frowned, watching his brother's eyes move beneath their lids. Sam let out a low moan and Dean stood up. "Sam?"

His brother moaned again in reply and opened his eyes, his glassy gaze swivelling everywhere, expression pinched with pain. Dean leaned forward, putting his hands on the mattress. "Hey. What's happening? Talk to me."

"S-S'mmch…"

"I know. I know, Sam. But we gotta keep you stable until the ambulance—"

Sam shook his head, coughing, his face blanching even more. He swallowed a couple of times, and Dean recognised the signs. "Okay," he said. "Okay, okay—" He hurried to collect the trash can. "Jody, I think—"

Jody was already getting up from her chair and exiting the room with her phone in hand. Sam winced as Dean rolled him over to his right, holding the dustbin below Sam's chin. The retching that followed was painful to hear and Sam gasped and moaned in between heaves, unable to pull in breaths or bear the pain. Jody poked her head in, her expression worried. "Dean, where is it hurting him?"

"Every—" Sam started to reply but he gagged again, and Dean's heart clenched. "A-All o'vr…" Sam said, surfacing for a moment.

"All over your stomach?" Dean asked him. Sam nodded miserably.

Jody went back to the phone and Dean waited for Sam's nausea to abate before laying him straight and handing him some Kleenex. When Jody returned a minute later, she looked anxious. Dean swallowed. "What did the doc say?"

"You should speak to him," she replied, putting the phone on loudspeaker and placing it on the bedside cabinet.

"Doc?" Dean called out.

 _"Yes,"_  Dr Sheikh replied.  _"Can you tell me about his new symptoms?"_

"His BP is ninety over sixty," Dean replied. "And he just threw up. Is that supposed to happen?"

_"He said he has pain all over his abdomen?"_

"Yeah."

 _"Okay, I need you to do a few tests."_  Dean rubbed his palms together as the doctor continued,  _"First, I need you to just palpate his abdomen. Touch it and tell me what it feels like."_

Dean pulled up Sam's t-shirt and when he placed a hand on Sam's belly his brother gasped, causing Dean to move back, but that wasn't before he felt the rigidity of Sam's muscles underneath his palm.

 _Is it firm?"_  Dr Sheikh asked, as though he were reading Sam's mind.

"Yeah, it kinda is," Dean agreed.

_"Okay, then, ask him where the pain is maximum, and push that part down lightly."_

"He's already hurting—"

_"Trust me, Dean. You have to do this if you want me to reach a diagnosis."_

Dean swallowed. "Sammy… where does it hurt most?"

"S'mach…" Sam hissed, pointing at his left again and Dean bent over, only to have his brother recoil. "N-No… pl'se… D'n, pl'se. 'M s'ry, 'm s'ry…"

"Just – just a moment, man, I'll be done in a moment… promise." Dean thought he knew what Sam was apologising for, and he felt his heart sink. Sam still flinched when Dean approached him and Dean pushed a palm down at the tender spot, making Sam sigh lightly, but when he withdrew his hand, Sam screamed, shutting his eyes and beating his fists against the bed.

 _"He's hurting when you withdraw your palm?"_  the doctor asked, obviously having listened in on the phone.  _"And he seems reluctant to let you palpate him."_

"Yeah, yeah, what—?"

 _"One last thing,"_  the doctor said.  _"Listen to his abdomen on the stethoscope. Tell me if you can hear his bowel sounds."_

Dean put the earpieces on before the doctor had finished and gently placed the diaphragm of the stethoscope on his brother's belly. He couldn't hear anything. He put the instrument aside.

"Can't hear 'em, doc," he said, his heart hammering against his chest.

Dr Sheikh let out an exhale.  _"His peritoneum is irritated. He needs surgical intervention."_

"Surgical?" Dean asked him. "He needs his spleen removed? How long can this wait?"

 _"Not long,"_  said the doctor.  _"He's bleeding out faster than I estimated. He ideally needs to have his spleen repaired, but…"_

"But?"

_"It needs certain equipment that you may not have."_

"We have a stocked infirmary. Try me."

_"Okay, you need sutures, a sterile mesh to wrap up the spleen, absorbent haemostatic agents and several instruments."_

Dean had plenty of sutures on him but the rest…

He sighed. "I have just the sutures and possibly the instruments. Is there another way? Without the fancy stuff?"

_"Yes. An open splenectomy."_


	2. Two

Dean pushed the needle through the rubber diaphragm of the vial of ketamine, loading the syringe carefully. "Two mL, Jody," he told the sheriff as he drew the plunger up to the two millilitre mark. Sam needed an anaesthetic and the only one Dean had on him was ketamine, which was the most appropriate for all the field treatments that he and Sam had to do sometimes when they couldn't get to the hospital.

Dr Sheikh confirmed ketamine didn't lower blood pressure or need airway management with a vent so it was the safest anaesthetic for situations like these. Which was just as well as there was no other option.

Meanwhile, Jody gave Dean the syringe she'd been loading and Dean capped and twisted off the needle of his own before transferring the saline, increasing the volume of the anaesthetic to four millilitres. The doctor had got off the phone and had sent notes and links through e-mail. He was on video chat now and Dean prayed that the WiFi reception would stay intact throughout the surgery.

Dean dragged the trolley towards the table where they'd transferred Sam while Jody went to check if the sparse number of instruments they had were sterilised. The infirmary was well-stocked, but unfortunately, those were outdated things from half-a-century ago. There was no drug within expiry date and most instruments were primitive. However, Dr Sheikh had assured Dean that a bare minimum of instruments would be enough.

"It's done!" Dean heard her say and he headed to the basin to wash his hands. He scrubbed them once with soap and Jody joined him, pouring Betadine on his palms which he scrubbed right up to his elbows, like the doctor had told him to. Once he had washed it away, he walked to the autoclave while Jody turned the tap off.

He had put a couple of his old shirts in the autoclave to use as drapes. Dean took one, bundled up the instruments in it, and returned to his trolley before carefully spreading the drape on its surface and starting to arrange the instruments and dressing material. Jody shook out a pair of sterile, latex gloves on the tray. The doctor watched, quiet, humming approvingly at intervals, while Sam slipped in and out of consciousness.

Sam was connected to an old cardiac monitor — so old, Dean had to squint to see the display. It was all they could find in the infirmary: another relic from the fifties. It was a small brown box with a round display and a separate speaker on the side for the alarm. It gave out a wire which was connected to ten leads instead of the standard three and the doctor had guided Dean and Jody to connect them. There was nothing to count Sam's pulse, but the doctor had agreed to keep a mental count by listening to the monitor.

"Give him the anaesthetic," Dr Sheikh's voice said from the laptop screen. Jody uncapped the loaded syringe and took Sam's left hand. "Dean, arrange the instruments so that you can pick them up quick and easy."

There were a total of six kinds of instruments on the tray: the handle for the blade, the sponge-holding forceps, four artery forceps, a needle holder, an old-time metal cautery, and a pair of scissors. Dean had searched in the limited time he had, but none of the other necessary instruments that Dr Sheikh had described were there. Even the needle holder and scissors were from his and Sam's med kit.

"He's out," Jody reported, putting aside the syringe.

Dean sighed, glancing up at Sam, who had stopped moving, and was breathing peacefully. The EKG machine was bleeping periodically, display turned towards the laptop monitor and showing, what Dean hoped, was a normal pattern and rhythm.

"You need to start immediately," the doctor informed them. "Jody, give him the blade."

Jody obeyed and Dean attached the blade to its handle. He stared at the straight line he had marked from the place where Sam's sternum ended, to his umbilicus. Sam was stripped down to just his boxers, which were pulled down a bit low to allow for a longer incision, just in-case.

"Scrub him," Dr Sheikh instructed. "Pick up a cotton pad with the sponge-holding forceps and scrub his whole abdomen with Betadine. Clean up with spirit, get washed again, and paint with more Betadine."

Jody retrieved the Betadine bottle and poured some on Sam's belly and some on the pad that Dean was holding. He put the material to his brother's abdomen and began to scrub in circles, his mind detached, his wrists starting to ache, until Jody's voice broke through to him. "Dean, that's enough."

He broke out of his reverie and blinked up at the laptop screen where Dr Sheikh looked concerned. "Are you ready for this?"

Dean snorted. "You think?" He sighed as he cleaned the yellow, frothy scrub with spirit, threw the cotton pads and his gloves, and went back to scrub his hands again. Jody poured Betadine in a small bowl they'd sterilized, and Dean soaked a piece of gauze in it and began painting Sam's belly lightly.

He scoffed as he looked at Dr Sheikh. "You really think I'm ready, Doc?  _You_  ever been ready to operate on your family?"

"No, I'm serious," the man replied. "If you're not, have Jody wash up. This has to be done  _right now_ , Dean. There's a reason we can't wait for the ambulance. His BP is low, we have no time to waste."

"Yeah," Dean cleared his throat. "Yeah, I know. I—" He picked up the scalpel and clenched his jaw. "Let's do this."

Jody adjusted the light and Dean gripped the scalpel, holding it like a pen, just like the doctor had said. "Dean," called Jody's voice softly and he looked up at her. Their eyes met and he nodded at her, before placing the blade on Sam's skin, on the black line. His hand shook but he steadied himself.

"Go," Dr Sheikh encouraged him. "One swipe, all the way to his umbilicus. No stalling."

Dean nodded and licked his lip. "I'm sorry, Sammy," he mumbled, and pressed the blade lightly, drawing a thin stream of blood before going all the way down.

"Good, again," the doctor said. "Cut and separate the layers. Look for the omentum — it will be golden-yellow in colour, like a scarf."

Dean drew the scalpel down again, feeling more confident, and then another time, separating the layers with his hands gently, his heart beating fast as he did so.  _Fuck, fuck, he was cutting his brother open._

But he had to do this. He knew he had to, if he needed Sammy to be alive.

Provided he didn't kill Sam first.

His gloves were covered in blood, the white invisible through the wet, warm red that coated it. The metallic stench wafted into Dean's nostrils and he looked away for a moment, remembering he wasn't wearing a mask, and he realised then how open, how exposed his brother was right now — how vulnerable, and how prone to much, much worse if Dean didn't do this properly.

_"N-No… pl'se… D'n, pl'se. 'M s'ry, 'm s'ry…"_

Sam had thought that Dean was hurting him for what he'd said. Did Sam believe Dean would do that? That Dean would be angry enough to deliberately cause pain to him? That no matter what Sam said, Dean would ever stop believing, that they were, and would always be brothers?

Dean reached the omentum — a stole of gold covering Sam's organs, almost protectively (and it  _was_  probably protective). He swallowed down sudden nausea as he looked up at the doctor. "Shall I open it?"

"Go ahead," Dr Sheikh replied. "But be careful. The cavity is going to be filled with blood. Jody, check the BP."

Jody began to inflate the cuff and Dean looked away from Sam's ravaged form as he heard her let out the air from the apparatus. "Sixty-five over forty," she said.

"He needs blood," the doctor replied. "Increase the speed of his saline drip first."

Dean had been warned that Sam would need blood but he didn't have any of the blood bags on him. They hadn't restocked those in a while.

He blew out a plume of breath as Jody adjusted the rate of Sam's drip. "Should Jody start taking my blood?" Dean asked. He and Sam had matching blood groups and had given blood to one another before.

"No, actually," Dr Sheikh replied. "I was going to suggest an auto-transfusion."

"A  _what_?"

"He doesn't have an infection," the doctor explained. "His peritoneum is irritated because of the blood, which is technically clean, since it hasn't been exposed."

"Okay, so?"

"You can open the peritoneum, draw the blood out in syringes, and Jody can inject them back into Sam while you work on removing the spleen."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "And that will work?"

"It used to be a classic method used during field amputations before blood donation became a thing," said the doctor. "It works in emergencies. Just don't give back a very large volume. We can try and stabilise him a little with half a pint right now, but later, you'll have to give him your blood."

Dean nodded mutely, unsure how else to respond. He just hoped that Sam wouldn't die. He knew that no matter how the surgery went, he'd be rushing Sam to the hospital as soon as the snow cleared.

"Okay, go on," the doctor encouraged Dean. "The longer it takes, the more ketamine you'll have to use, and the side-effects will only get worse from there. He hasn't even fasted before his surgery. If he starts vomiting there will be a whole new problem. Even though he threw up before, his stomach isn't necessarily empty."

Dean nodded, clenched his fingers around the scalpel and cut through the peritoneum, pulling the flaps apart with his hands. He was appalled to see a lake of blood inside, bright red and flooding everything…

He caught himself in time, just before the dizzy spell attacked him. Sam had bled so much, had been in so much pain… how the fuck hadn't Dean noticed? Fuck,  _fuck_ , when had he started getting so out-of-sync with his brother? They'd just been apart for a week, and this is what happened in the meantime? Dean forgot how to look out for Sammy? What kind of a brother was Dean?

"Dean," Jody was calling out. "Dean, fill the syringes."

His ears were blocked and her voice was muffled when he looked up at her, sweat breaking on his forehead. Right. The syringes. Sammy needed blood. Dean swallowed and reached for a fifty millilitre syringe. Thankfully, he and Sam had stocked up on enough of these.

"Four syringes for half a pint," the doctor said. "Don't give him more, he might have a reaction and there won't be much you'll be able to do then."

Dean nodded — frantically, and got to filling up syringes and handing them to Jody, one by one. His gloves were slick with hot blood and the syringes slipped while he held them but he managed, watching Jody as she started attaching the mouth of each syringe to the IV catheter and pushing in blood.

"BP," said Dr Sheikh when she was done and Jody began inflating again while Dean waited… praying…

"Eighty over fifty," Jody reported to them.

"Not great, but we can work with that," said the doctor. "Give him another shot of the ketamine. And Dean, soak up the blood quickly."

Dean did as the doctor told him, his stomach turning as he soaked up big swabs of cotton with Sam's blood and then cleaned the area with some saline from a syringe. Sam's spleen was just visible under the sheath of peritoneum covering it.

"Open the cavity," the doctor instructed. "Use your hand and move it along the convex surface until you feel the peritoneal attachments."

Dean nodded and inserted his hand into the wound, remembering ghosts and demons doing this in a more brutal way. He was hurting Sam — physically  _tearing_  at his body, and he couldn't help but think of how much this was going to hurt and debilitate Sam for the next few weeks.

"Dean, concentrate," said a firm voice and Dean swallowed, turning his attention to his work. He tried to imagine that this wasn't Sam; that this was…

_"Oh, who are we going to carve today? Will it be Sammy?_

Alastair's voice in his head caught him off guard and Dean stopped abruptly, looking up at Jody. He couldn't do this. He couldn't do this. He needed her to take over… he was… he was going to…

He swallowed.  _No._  Sam needed his help. Sam needed to know that no matter what, Dean would always save him. That he'd keep coming back to him. It didn't matter if Sam didn't consider them brothers anymore. Sam was still the precious bundle in Dean's arms when he'd run out of their burning house. Sam was still the one person Dean would give up  _anything_  for. He couldn't lose Sam to this. He just couldn't.

"Hey," said a voice, breaking through his thoughts, and he looked at Jody, one hand awkwardly in Sam's belly. She smiled reassuringly. "You're doing great, okay? You're going to save him, Dean. Just go on."

He nodded, again and again, frantically, and the doctor was silent as Dean finally felt, and gently ripped (if there was anything gentle about it at all) at the various fibrous attachments. At long last, when Sam's spleen was more mobile, Dean grasped it and moved it towards the incision. He could see the rupture, a dark red blemish in deep purple and he let out a short breath, encouraging himself to calm down.

"We use electrocautery for such procedures these days, but you'll use your hand," Dr Sheikh said. "Go further along the convex side of the spleen and separate the rest of the ligaments. Start with the ones that are still holding the spleen to the peritoneum and go lower. If there's a bleeder anywhere, you'll have to use the artery forceps or cauterise, so be ready for that."

Dean nodded as Jody started to set up a Bunsen burner for the cauterisation, in case they needed to cauterise. He took a deep breath and began, again, to move his moving, grasping, and then tearing as gently as he could, while with his other hand, he tried to mop the blood. His body felt detached from his mind as he did it, with just a voice in his head, which coaxed him to keep going for Sammy. He knew he was doing a piss-poor job, and that the doctors would need to open up Sam again, and he wished he could do something more worthwhile than this.

"Now go posterior and dissect those attachments with your hand. Be careful of the splenic artery and vein. Keep the clamps ready for those."

Dean wanted to wipe sweat of his brow but he didn't dare raise a hand to do it. God knew, he was already infecting Sam enough. He placed his hand in the wound and started separating the attachments again with the border of his palm. When he'd done that he moved the spleen towards the wound and pulled it out, his body working on autopilot again and he continued, until a sharp voice disrupted him.

"No!"

By the time Dean had noticed though, it was too late. And all he saw was the profuse blood that was beginning to fill Sam's abdomen again.

**~o~**

The ancient EKG was screeching, the sound alien and terrifying in Dean's ears as Dr Sheikh frantically shouted out instructions.

"It's his splenic artery," he said, "Clamp it  _now!_ "

The blood came out in great, warm spurts, on Dean's face and his clothes. He grasped an old artery forceps and grabbed the leaking vessel before clamping it. It locked with a click and the spurts stopped, but Sam was still bleeding.

"His BP is dropping," Jody informed, taking off the stethoscope.

"He needs blood," the doctor informed. "Dean."

Dean nodded, already tying the tourniquet around his arm. He uncapped a fifty cc. "A pint?" he asked.

"Yes," said the doctor. "But sit down. You need to be careful."

Dean ignored him as he made a fist and pushed the needle into a prominent vein, drawing out the plunger and watching as dark blood filled it. He handed it over to Jody as soon as he was done, reaching for another syringe, and then another…

"Dean, slow down."

He didn't care. The EKG was still wailing and Sam needed blood. He would die if Dean didn't help.

The fourth syringe shook in his hands. His vision blurred, but he found a new vein and plunged it in, drawing more blood. The injection spots from earlier were painful and bruised. He pulled his glove off and tapped the blue veins at his wrist next, his head spinning and his gut churning, but he didn't care. He had to keep going. He had to close up Sammy after all this and he couldn't pass out.

_Save Sam, or kill him. You should have killed him long ago._

Same circumstances, I wouldn't.

Dean took another syringe and carried on. Screw everyone. Sam was his brother.

**~o~**

_Sam feels light and good as he sits in his room, a book propped on his lap while he reads the words. His mind is active and free of burdens and he feels oddly clean — like someone has scrubbed him gently, all over. He looks at his arms, to see that all the scars he's ever possessed are gone._

Sam sighs, running his hand over the skin, the lack of puckered discolouration feeling odd. Why is he like this? What has Dean done this time? Is he dead again?

He's about to call out to his brother, when someone knocks at his door.

"Come in,"  _says Sam in a hoarse voice, and the door opens, as a familiar face peeks in._

"Hey, Sam,"  _says Kevin Tran softly, giving him a sad smile._

**~o~**

Voices called out to him.

_"Dean, Dean."_

"Dean."

"Dean!"

He was sweating. He swallowed down bile and his knees buckled at the seventh syringe. He sank to the floor, Jody rushing to his side and folding him over so that his head was between his knees. He took a deep breath, his stomach turning, and handed the syringe to Jody.

"T… Take…"

"Dean, it can wait. I've given him six syringes."

"He'll d-die…"

"He'll be fine. Take a breather. We won't let him die, okay?"

"Can't… g-give him m-more K. H-He can't… s'art p-puking. N-Need to…" Dean pushed his head up, trying to ignore the spinning, but Jody's hand was on his neck, pushing it back down.

"Dean," she said firmly, sounding like she was someone's mom. Oh well, she was a mom… or had been…

Dean's thoughts were spinning in circles too.

He took deep breaths and a few sips out of the glass of salt-and-sugar solution that Jody pushed to his lips. "Drink," she said. Even though he felt like his stomach would rebel, he was able to finish the whole thing. He took out three more syringes of blood, drank another glass of ass-tasting solution, and Jody brought him a stool to sit on to finish the rest of the surgery.

Dean ligated the leaky vessels next, holding them with old forceps which only worked half and were either too loose or too tight, and with one silk suture here, artery forceps clamping that, and  _cutting, cutting, cutting_  until he managed to cut off the spleen. His hands were shaky and he fingers barely worked but he wouldn't allow Jody to touch Sam.

After scooping out the clots like the doctor told him to, Dean started working on the cauterisation. He had to hold the metal cautery against the Bunsen flame before applying it to the bleeders. The sizzle of Sam's flesh, followed by the stink of it burning made him want to throw up. Sam stopped bleeding, though, and that was all Dean needed for now.

While closing his brother up, Dean could barely get the sutures right. The hand holding the needle holder trembled too much and Dean had to use his fingers to twirl the sutures to knot them. The stitching went slow — too slow, because they kept slipping but Sam was relatively stable, with blood inside him, although they needed another shot of ketamine.

When the sutures were done, Dean could barely just hold himself together to request Jody to dress the wound and he ignored her concerned face as he staggered to the basin, his hands still gloved, and he braced the sides of the sink before leaning over and throwing up again and again, losing all the rehydration solution and his dinner, and God knew what, with tears streaming down his face, although he didn't know if it was from the effort of puking, or if it was for the fact that he was thankful, so  _fucking_  thankful that Sam was alive.

**~o~**

_Sam doesn't understand what's going on. Kevin has left and he's alone again, but this time, he doesn't feel half as good as how he'd felt earlier. He is in a white, empty room, in white clothes, and all his scars are back. He can feel the itch of stubble on his jaw and he raises a hand to scratch at it._

"Saaaam."

_The voice is familiar, the tone sing-song. It comes from behind him._

"Sammy,"  _says the voice again, the caress in it sickening. Sam takes a sharp breath and turns around, only to see Lucifer standing there with a satisfied grin on his face. Something twists in Sam's gut as pain flares up his abdomen. He winces and looks down, only to see blood spurting out of a gaping wound on his belly._

"He's waking up. Jody, he's waking up."

The pain intensifies. Lucifer smiles wider and extends a hand, pushing it through Sam's already-wounded abdomen, twisting it. Sam yells out in pain.

"Sammy, Sammy, hey, it's okay, it's okay."

"He's in a lot of pain, Dean. I'll ask the doc…"

"No, no, I've got something for him. No need to ask the doc. Hang on, Sammy!"

Suddenly, Sam realised that he wasn't with Lucifer anymore. He was on a firm, flat surface, pain coursing through his abdomen like nothing he'd ever felt. He could hear a familiar, female voice, soothing him, and he couldn't place it. But he'd heard Dean before that, and Dean had said he'd make it okay…

He heard footsteps, and something tugged at his palm, followed by something cold running up his vein.

"That's it, Sammy, relax, relax, it's morphine…"

Dean's voice tethered him from drowning in pain and he held on, frantically, until a tidal wave of agony crashed into him, worse than anything he'd ever felt his whole life. Cold sweat broke out on his forehead and before Sam knew, he was screaming, vomit crawling out of his stomach and getting caught in his throat, choking him.

"Sammy!"

The voice calling his name was frantic and someone moved him hurriedly on his side, causing more pain to flare up as he coughed up bile miserably, letting it leak out of his mouth. He retched again. And again, and again, his sore gut convulsing in unstoppable agony.

"Hey, hey," a hand was on his neck and another softer hand was rubbing his back but he couldn't stop gagging. The pain rose and fell, and Sam's stomach rolled with each spasm, his nerves screaming for mercy and his mind pleading for death.

"It's over, honey," the woman promised him. "It's over. Relax."

But it wasn't over and Sam couldn't stop heaving. The pain wasn't going either. He felt himself go lax, weak retches still issuing from him. A calloused hand held his forehead and Dean's voice was laced with worry. "Sammy. Sammy, stay with me."

But he couldn't. He wanted to go. He wanted to die. He couldn't take any of this pain for a minute longer.

 _Please, Dean, let me go,_  said a small voice in his head. He finally felt the heaving start to taper off and Dean's hand went from Sam's forehead to his hair, thick fingers carding through it gently. And Sam leaned in to the gesture as he finally felt his consciousness leave him again, feeling safe with Dean close by.


	3. Three

_**Now** _

Dean tries to be patient as he waits for Cas to come back. His ass is starting to get wet and Cas had said he'd like a few minutes alone with Sam, which is why Dean's not at Sam's side in the first place. He scratches at his nose, wondering what Sam and Cas are talking about. Sam's just knocked out most of the time because Dean fucked up pretty badly with all his field surgery.

Sam has a high threshold for pain and Dean has rarely heard him even utter a peep over experiences most people would describe as excruciating. Yet, after Dean's homemade surgery, he'd heard Sam scream, actually  _scream_  in agony, reminding him of Sam's hours in the panic room while detoxing. Then Sam had begun to puke his guts up and he hadn't been able to stop, and Dean was distraught while Jody was worried. Apparently, this was a reaction to the pain, the doctors had said, later on. Morphine had only intensified Sam's pain instead of decreasing it.

What universe this made sense in, Dean didn't know, but he went with it.

They'd reopened Sam at the hospital, like Dean had thought they would. And Sam hadn't woken up for hours. He'd also burned with fever and the doctors couldn't figure out what was causing it because his blood reports didn't point towards anything and the antibiotics didn't work. There was no post-op infection — they checked, and finally, after a week, they gave up and called it 'pyrexia of unknown origin' and sent Sam for a psychiatry consult.

The psychiatrist diagnosed Sam with stress and suggested a change of atmosphere. And though Sam weakly protested, Dean called in a few favours and rented this little cabin that they're currently staying in. It's got two rooms and is near the hills, with fresh breeze coming in everyday, even though the snow is heavy at night.

They've been here three days, though, and Sam's still not getting better. He isn't eating much — just complying when Dean hooks him up on IVs and all he does is take his pills and sleep, wake up, read, and then sleep again. The fevers come and go. Sam doesn't speak more than a few words a day. Sometimes, Dean finds him staring at the wall and offers to take him out when it's warmer, but Sam doesn't respond. Dean wonders if it would be any different in the bunker.

Sometimes, Dean gets angry — really fucking angry. Sam has no right to mope about, after saying all kinds of shit to Dean. If he's sorry, and that is what is making him like this, he should fucking apologise. Dean will accept it any day. And if there's something else that Sam's going all emo about — well, tough. He has no idea;  _no idea_  what Dean went through while he was dying. So yeah, Dean tried to save him. Desperate measures. And if it's the splenectomy that is bothering Sam… what's done is done and if Sam is going to be a bitch about everything, then screw him. He can talk the day  _he_  performs emergency surgery on someone, using his hands as scissors.

So Dean remains where he is and waits for Cas. He wasn't about to call Cas, knowing he's on his search for Metatron, and can't be disturbed, but Dean just couldn't take it anymore. Two nights ago, Sam's fever had spiked so much, Dean had again thought he'd die, and had spent the whole night praying to some unknown entity to keep his brother alive, because Sam didn't have another spleen that he could remove.

Presently, the door opens and Castiel strides out, his trenchcoat billowing behind him. Dean should say — he liked the last one better, and he wonders why Cas has a fixation for tan trenchcoats, but… whatever.

Castiel's blue eyes look earnest as he speaks. "I've healed him."

"Of—?"

"The fever. I can't give him a new spleen, Dean. I can only heal what is there."

Dean swallows. He knew it wouldn't be a hundred per cent. But he's still grateful. He clears his throat. "Thanks, Cas."

Castiel nods. "Dean," he says, and then looks into his eyes. "I understand why you did everything that you did, you know. To save Sam."

Dean knows, somehow, that he isn't talking about the splenectomy. He presses his lips together, while Castiel continues, "But, as Sam's friend, I think there's one thing you should do."

"What?"

Castiel's glance is firm. "Stop behaving the way you are, Dean. Apologise to him."

Dean's jaw drops. " _I_  should be the one apologising now?"

"I am aware that he said hurtful things to you, and I'm not saying he's right. But maybe you should take the first step this time, Dean."

"Cas, Sam's being a—"

"He's  _upset_ ," Castiel says, interrupting him. "He's extremely upset about you taking such liberties with him."

"Oh, so saving his life now is taking liberty?"

"No, but getting him possessed by manipulating him was, Dean. And I understand, I really do—"

"Screw you, Cas," snarls Dean, interrupting him. "You don't understand shit. So just fuck off."

Guilt immediately pops up for what he's just said to Cas but he swallows it down and pushes past his friend, into the cabin, to talk to Sam himself.

**~o~**

_Hey, Sam._

Sam can still hear Kevin's voice in his head. He can still remember Kevin walking beside him, their feet bare, their footsteps light, as they strolled through the bunker hallways. He can remember every breath he took and every word he said. And he wonders if any of it was real, or if it was just a ketamine-induced hallucination.

_"Kevin," Sam had said, "I'm so—"_

_He had held up his hand. "Don't apologise, okay? It's not your fault."_

_Sam shook his head. He shook his head frantically. "No, no, it **is**  my fault. I should have put my foot down about this. I should never have told Dean that crap about the light at the end of the tunnel." He snorted. "There was never any light. There's never light for us… for me."_

_"Oh, shut up," Kevin said suddenly, stopping in his tracks. "I lost my mom and my girlfriend in a span of six months, lost any prospects of becoming the first Asian-American president, and **you're**  telling me you've got nothing to live for?"_

_Sam smiled. "My life seem any better than yours to you?"_

_Kevin nodded. "Yeah," he said. "Because you know what? No matter what you do, you've had, and will always have Dean by your side. So let me do the brooding this time, okay? Stop blaming yourself."_

_"Kevin—"_

_He sighed. "If it means that much to you, Sam, I forgive you. Will you two stop fighting now? This was about me dying, wasn't it?"_

_Sam shook his head. "No it's not just that. It's not…" he sighed, fell silent, as Kevin suddenly vanished with a flicker. And then he was claimed by the welcoming blackness._

Sam breaks out of his reverie when he hears footsteps. He feels much better, now that Cas has healed him. The pain from the sutures and the peritonitis is gone and the fever has stopped burning through him. His head isn't pounding anymore. Physically, he feels good.

Dean walks into the room just then, halting at the door for a moment before making his way in, boots thumping against wood. He nods at Sam. "Hey."

"Hey."

"How're you feeling?"

"Okay," Sam responds.

Dean lets out a weak breath of laughter. "I guess I'm the real Dr Sexy then, huh?"

Sam smiles wanly at him. "Real, yeah. Sexy, not so much." He doesn't thank Dean for the splenectomy, but he imagines Dean standing over him with a scalpel, hands shaking, and wonders what he'd have done if he'd had to perform field surgery like that.

"Good," Dean says. He pauses, looking uncomfortable. "Cas reckons I should apologise."

Sam raises an eyebrow at the perceptive angel. "He does?"

"Yeah," Dean replies. "And okay, I will. But tell me — for which time do you want an apology?" He pauses. "Or is it for all the times?"

"Huh?" Sam asks him lamely, wondering if he's missed something.

"Which time shouldn't I have saved your skin?" Dean asks him. "Since you want to be all…  _dead_ —" his voice breaks. When Sam looks into his eyes, he sees hurt there.

"Just tell me, okay?" Dean continues. "Maybe next time you should just put a bullet in your head. And then—" he laughs shakily, "maybe I'll put one in mine and we'll finish the story there."

Sam doesn't respond and Dean sits down on a worn, wooden chair next to Sam's bed, burying his face in his hands. He sniffs once or twice and Sam's heart starts to race, as he wonders if Dean's crying, but Dean looks up and his eyes are dry.

"Truth is," he says, and he sounds tired, "I am just a fucking coward. I should have offed myself at Cold Oak, man. I just fucked it up by bringing you back and—" he swallows, but he doesn't continue. Instead, there's silence. Sam looks away.

"Sammy, tell me," Dean says slowly, as Sam fidgets with his hands. "Is it — am I so bad? That when I just wanted you to live—"

"Dean," Sam says abruptly, looking at his brother, not allowing him to continue. Because, honestly, he's had enough. Trust Dean to make this all about himself and not  _listen_.

Dean's eyes are on Sam now, and Sam licks his lip. "I'm not apologising for, or taking back what I said."

Dean nods, the pain in his eyes intensifying, but Sam forces himself not to sympathise. "I need you to think — to really  _think_  about what I said the other day."

His elder brother smiles. "Yeah, I got that one, Sam. You don't need to make sure I remember. And you know what?" he looks up, and now there's anger in his eyes. "You have _no right_ —"

"No right to be upset about this?" Sam asks him. He takes a deep breath and speaks, but this time his voice shudders. "I trusted you, Dean."

"I did it to save your life, man!"

"No!" Sam replies. "That's what you  _think_  you did. But… Dean, you  _betrayed_  me." And the memories are back — his hands smiting Kevin, brandishing an angel blade at Abner…

Sam's throat gets clogged and he tries to swallow around it and he sounds hoarse when he speaks again. "I thought you were the one person who wouldn't let this happen. Possession…" He can't go on. Tears are filling his eyes, bringing back the hurt and betrayal that he's been feeling over the last few days. The pain is back — the same pain that made him hope that the fever ravaging his body would kill him once and for all.

"Sammy…" Dean's anger is gone, and a hand is on the back of Sam's neck. "Hey, man…" He swallows. "I'm sorry, okay? For real. I didn't—" he sighs. "Please talk to me."

Sam swipes a hand over his wet eyes and shakes his head. "Dean, just go."

"Sam—"

_"_ _Go."_

The warm hand from the back of Sam's neck is gone and he watches Dean walk away with wet eyes. As Dean reaches the door he stops, puts a hand on the frame, and says, "Fine." Sam hears a hint of tears in his brother's voice and he lies back down on his bed, turning his back to Dean, and not looking until the door has shut behind his brother.

**The End**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> People do weird things while waking up from Ketamine anaesthesia. Today, this guy tried to eat his hand. He was too restless, so they gave him a shot of K before opening him up and well... Also - Dean's suturing - I had an art piece for this which showed just how wrongly he was doing it, but usually, when you've given enough sutures, you don't need your hand for any thread twirling. I used to do that in the beginning before I got the hang of it.
> 
> Thank you for stopping by!  
> Pooja


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